


Gathering

by SerpentineJ



Series: Gerita Week 2015 [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Fun, M/M, Such K, basically a big family dinner, that ends with a first kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 12:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3327599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentineJ/pseuds/SerpentineJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oddly enough, Feliciano’s lips are soft, warm, and taste slightly of fruit. A sappy first kiss situation. Day two of Gerita week; Firsts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gathering

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Augh, I am trash. I didn’t have a fic for yesterday, the freeform day, because I am an unimaginative crap.
> 
> Also, this is a day late because my internet cut out last night.

Their relationship is not one that comes quickly.

It takes weeks, months, years of Germany dancing around Italy, blushes and stutters and half-platonic “ich libre di”s before he finally makes a move, eyes impossibly wide and frightened.

Fear doesn’t look good on Ludwig.

Alternately, Feliciano has always been a little slow, a little obtuse, but he is by no means dim or dull-witted. He knows through a pale gaze lingering for just a moment too long on his cheeks, the adorable flush that rises to stain his Germany’s porcelain cheeks a dusky rose when he grabs his hand, the small smiles and half-formed thoughts he can practically taste on the other’s chapped lips.

So he waits. Italy bides his time, watching for the moment in which his dear, precious Ludwig (and it might sound odd, describing someone like him, all muscled and shout-y and frown-y as something so delicate, like white-gold filigree, but he does anyways) will realize that he wants nothing more than to spend the rest of eternity pestering him, using his flour, holding his hands and kissing his shoulders.

Feliciano writes more love poems, scrawls more sappy stories and paints more gentle men during that time, that era of blood and pain and darkness, than any other.

‘~~~~~~

“Germany, GERMANY!” Italy is grinning, bouncing on the balls of his feet and gesturing wildly, energetic as always. The Aryan nation looks up from his novel, eyebrow raised.

“What?” He sighs. The wind ruffles their hair, faintly sweet from the sheer warmth of the sun and the gentle green of the grass. Germany is seated on a bench atop the hill, Italy making his way towards his friend.

He beams, and the man on the bench secretly thinks the brightness of that smile rivals the light of the sun. 

“I made pasta!”

He refrains from rolling his eyes at the brunet’s overabounding enthusiasm for noodles and sauce, instead sighing and shutting his book altogether. Feliciano may make pasta too often and in enormous quantities (“but pasta is meant to be shared, Germany! With friends and family!”), so much so that he usually ends up inviting Japan and Romano over, and Romano always brings Spain (because really, he’s heard France is running a betting pool on how long it’ll be until they get together), and Austria and Hungary absolutely adore Italy’s cooking, so the situation typically snowballs until there are ten to fifteen people sitting around Germany’s big dining table, shouting in Italian and eating and drinking and saying things like “wonderful as always, Veniciano” and “how are the potatoes, you potato bastard?” (which doesn’t make sense, Germany thinks, because whenever Italy cooks he always has seconds and sometimes thirds).

Tonight is no different.

Austria has (not so) subtly inquired about Prussia’s whereabouts and, out of the goodness of his heart (and some pity), Germany has invited his brother along as well (though he doesn’t like how he hangs around Italy. It might be solely to provoke him. Austria doesn’t like it either.) 

Although it’s better than the time Rome had stopped by. He shudders at the thought.

~~~~~~

It happens when they’re clearing up.

Typically the guests will help with the dishes, Romano with a glare and a “it’s Italian custom, you potato bastard, not because I like you or anything”, Japan with a bow and a small “it’s the least I could do for such a wonderful meal”, and Germany hurries Prussia out the door before he can shatter any more porcelain with his “awesome circus tricks”. 

Feliciano is washing, Ludwig drying, working in tandem, the silence comfortable, familiar. They finish the cleaning and Italy stretches in the middle of the room, back arching, fingers clasped above his head, and Germany can’t help but smile at his sigh of relief.

“Germany smiled!” Of course, the other jumps on it right away, face splitting in a huge grin. 

He automatically turns away, cheeks red and hot, and Italy giggles. 

“No, it’s cute!” Before Ludwig can retort, can say anything along the lines of “I am not CUTE, Italy,” there’s the feeling of warm lips on his and his eyes fly open in surprise.

Feliciano pulls away, quickly, eyes alight, and Germany can’t get his heart rate under control. It feels like it’s about to beat right out of his chest.

He can see the others’ facial expression begin to drop, insecurity flitting over the round features, and that isn’t the right look for Italy at all.

So Ludwig kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: I should have today's up by tonight. If not, throw tomatoes at me.


End file.
